The rest of my week continued in a mesh of pool, beach and cooking. Then a couple of things changed with our plans and it became a mad scramble to find accommodations and a new time table for the upcoming month.
If I have been sparse in posting, its because I've been trying to figure out the next month, I'm tired, and I'm still trying to enjoy every moment.
So the new time table Douglas and I devised consists of the following:
8/28 - 9/2 : Valencia
9/2 - 9/9 : Madrid
9/9 - 9/16: Barcelona
9/16 - 9/24: Rome
9/24 - 9/29: Dublin
So, all in all, whatever changes may have happened opened up the opportunity to visit Rome--and I couldn't be happier!
Douglas and I had to check out of the hotel at 10am, but our night bus to Valencia didn't leave until 9:30pm. This meant we had the entire day in Malaga city center to explore. We used our time wisely.
On our way into the city we even discovered a ship named after Latin heartthrob Mario Lopez--of Saved by the Bell (Slater!) and Dancing with the Stars fame. But he's Mexican and born in San Diego, so I have no idea why he would have a ship named after him. Though a ship named "Mario Lopez's Abs" or "Mario Lopez's Dimples" would make perfect sense.
Once at the heart of Malaga, we found the Plaza del Obispo. The square is the quintessential baroque urban space of Malaga. After the re-conquest of the city by the Catholic Kinds, this square (which had already existed in the Muslim Malaga) was one of the few important plazas of the city. However, it was not until the 18th century that the plaza's monumental artistic and religious character flourished. The economic recovery that took place in the city played a large role in this improvement since with it came the construction of the Cathedral and Bishop's Palace.These buildings occupy two sides of the plaza and determined the religious character of the square that remains to this day.
The other important plaza that existed is now known as Constitution Plaza. It currently is considered the center of the city and houses a small cultural area of cafes and upscale shopping as well as plenty of souvenir shops. At the center of the plaza, water trickles from an ornate fountain.
During my research of Malaga, I fell in love with Alcabaza and Gilbalfro--a fortress and palace dating back to the 8th century, though primarily constructed during the 11th century. Although the first trip to the city center hadn't provided ample time to pay it a visit, this time I wasn't going to take "no" for an answer.
The word Alcabaza comes from the arabic word for citadel. This is the most well-preserved of its kind in all of Spain.
Douglas and I would be great at defending the city. At least we could out-pose any predatory intruders.
The remnants of what I assume was a mosaic. Along with larger rock fragments are tinier pieces as well.
Gardens, complete with an old school irrigation system and of course, plenty of fountains.
Intricate patterns adorned the floors and ceilings, while the arches also exhibited precision craftsmanship.
Douglas discovers his own way of scaring off intruders.
After we made our way through Alcabaza, we set our sites on Gibralfaro.
Gibralfaro is an ancient fortress on mount of 131 meters (no idea how many feet that is...), which dates back to the time when the Phoenicians founded the present city of Malaga. At the beginning of the 14th century Yusuf I of the Kingdom of Granada constructed the caste on an old Phoenician enclosure. The name is derived from the Phoenician word for light Jbel-Faro, meaning "Rock of Light".
The views from the castle were some of the most breathtaking and awe-inspiring I've ever seen.
Unfortunately, in order to get high enough to enjoy those views Douglas and I had to scale a mountain in flip flops in the sweltering heat. I am not overexaggerating when I say that at one point we (mostly I) had to stop every 20 feet or so. Towards the top the incline was so steep I took off my shoes because I feared that I would slide right back on down. Most people take the bus, and to be honest, I read online that the bus is the best way to get up there and that the "walk" (aka HIKE) is torturous. I just assumed it was a bunch of old people with cataracts, arthritic limbs and porcelain hips complaining. So I took on the mountain, Rambo-style. I take that back. It was more Rocky-style because I had my ass handed to me.
However, I made it. A feat I will remember forever. Mind over matter and all that. And the views and exhibit did not disappoint.
I don't know what this is, but it's a cute picture--and it illustrates the tomato shade of my face after the hike (aka MOUNTAINEERING) up to Gibraltar.
Then Douglas started making fun of "my pose". Apparently I always take pictures with a hand on my hip and my knee popped. I am 100% aware of this "phenomenon" and it is actually a decision I have made. Pictures look forced no matter how you take them. So I might as well stick to a pose that is a classic. Something I won't groan at in 20 years when I look at the pictures.
At the same time, I agree that I end up looking like a cut out doll with a different outfit posted in front of something new. I decided to start changing it up.
Here Douglas and I re-enact our favorite scenes from Indiana Jones.
The trek back down from the precipice of the city was much less arduous than our earlier expedition. We wandered our way back to the city center for some pizza before our nine hour journey to come.
(The pictures are taking too long to post. I will add them in as soon as I can, but I wanted you guys to know I'm still alive. Keep checking back!)
Letters From the Top of the World (or Spain?) (or Malaga?)
Chef Liane Recommends...
It was another day of systematically alternating between the pool and the beach. However, today, I decided to make dinner. Mostly because Douglas begged me, and I only obliged because I saw bags of Fideo at the grocery store and had been craving it ever since.
Fideo is often called "Mexican spaghetti". This term is ridiculous. It is way better than spaghetti. Everytime I think of spaghetti, I think of a bland ball of starchy noodles. Fideo is more like Mexican ambrosia- food of the Gods.
Growing up, my brothers and I would eat heaping platefuls of fideo at my grandparent's house. On occasion I would ask my grandmother to teach me how to make it. I can say I've definitely watched her and Martha make it several times. Unfortunately the word "teach" doesn't quite describe the experience. With them everything is by sight and feel: "a little of this", "some of that". That's not quite how I work...level teaspoons, people. The extra pinch of salt could ruin everything!
So I bought the ingredients. No big deal. That part was not that complicated. Some Fideo noodles, onion, garlic, tomato sauce and chicken stock. I thought my grandmother may have used tomato paste and chicken bouillon because I think one of those "lessons" had introduced me to those items, but I shrugged and decided that this would have to do.
But what about protein? Well, if you know me, it won't surprise you to know that I decided to make beans. I even sorted through them for rocks, just like Grandma taught me years and years ago--I have no idea how long ago it was, its one of those memories that goes WAY, WAY back.
And I did, indeed, find some rocks!
So--the moment you have been waiting for!
Liane's recipe for Fideo:
6 ounces of Fideo
2 tbsp. vegetable oil
1 md. onion chopped
2 cloves garlic, minced
2 cups chicken broth
1/4 cup tomato sauce
Heat oil in skillet, add uncooked fideo. Saute over medium heat until browned on both sides. Remove and drain on a paper towel.
Saute onions and garlic until onions are slightly transparent. Add tomato sauce; cook 3-5 minutes. Add sauteed fideo and chicken broth; bring to a boil. Reduce heat and simmer covered for 20 minutes, do not remove cover during simmering.
Enjoy.
I have to say, it was really great!
Douglas then rewarded my efforts by making us all mojitos! What a life.....
Day Trip to the City
Malaga. Although I keep referring to the place we are staying as Malaga, in actuality, we are in Calahonda near Marbella. Malaga is about 30km north up the coast of Spain.
The night before we left for a day trip to the city, Douglas made a Portuguese stew. 
I admit it, initially I doubted that a stew would be something I'd want to have in the middle of August on the coast of Spain. However, he proved me wrong- and I was delighted. It turned out to be one of the most delicious, flavorful, scrumptious (though not tasty) dishes I've eaten in a long while.
Here's a kudos to Douglas, for proving me wrong and making something that absurdly amazing!
After taking two buses to the city center it hit me: not that I was in Spain, but the smell of the city. The city reeks of sewage, and once, I actually saw a crew pumping the city waste into a truck. The heat of the city doesn't help the smell one bit. But once you look past the smell, there is a remarkable place before you.
At one point, Elise asked me if Spain was like Mexico. No. From what I've seen of Spain-it's a cleaner version of Mexico. As if Puerto Vallarta and Orange County had a pretty baby. A pretty baby that just pooped its diaper.
Malaga is the birthplace of Pablo Picasso. 
Although he rarely returned after he moved away, the city considers him its pride and joy. Just across from Plaza de Merced is the casa natal of Pablo Picasso. It was so unassuming that I overlooked it more than once on our quest to find it. Fear not, I used my SUPERB Spanish to ask a kindly tattoo shop owner for directions. Nearby, a (slightly larger than life-size) statue of Pablo Picasso's likeness had been erected.
One of the city sites was the Hall of Justice...no wait, that's from Wonder Friends--home of The Justice League (containing Batman, Superman, Aquaman, Wonderwoman etc...). It was called the Palace of Justice. At some point it probably held some government authorities, now, it was vacant.
What can be said? Maybe there is no justice in Spain. Or, maybe, there is so much justice...it no longer needed its own oceanfront palace.
Either way, it was one of the most disgustingly rundown things I'd ever seen.
One of the great draws to Malaga is the old Moorish fortification, Alcazaba from the 11th century. Here I am outside the Roman amphitheater located right beyond the walls of the fortress. We didn't have time to visit the entire thing that day, but there should be time in the upcoming days.
There are very few books I can say I outright disliked. One of them I read in 6th grade: Red Badge of Courage. The other I read my freshman year of high school: The Sun Also Rises 
by Ernest Hemingway. It's not that I dislike Hemingway, A Farewell to Arms is one of my favorites (subcategory Romance & War). But something about The Sun Also Rises always rubbed me the wrong way. I wonder if going back now I could appreciate it more. Now that I've seen the sunsets of Spain, fed the Spanish earth my blood, sweat and tears (literally). One thing I've yet to do? Bull fight.
Ancient Rome had the gladiators. The South has dogfights. Spain has bullfights. It might be gruesome, but something about the spectacle has attracted sold-out crowds for centuries. And when we get right to it, its not about the people, but about the money to be made.
I already got a warning text from my grandfather warning me of the dangers of bullfighting, but I assure you all-- I will not be actually fighting the bull myself.
I know what you are thinking. Yes, I did read the story about the spectators recently injured, but SERIOUSLY, if the bull is trying to jump into the crowd, wouldn't you move away the FIRST TIME? It was the third attempt. Didn't they know that the third time is the charm? Or does that not translate into Spanish?
On the way back, the bus stop was like something out of a circus freak show. There was a one-legged woman, a one-eyed woman, a man/boy/child that was much too large for the stroller he was having a fit in (it may have been a full grown man), a couple other oddities, but I have to say, white trash family deluxe took the cake.
What is white trash family deluxe? It was the all-in-one stereotype fulfillment. The "mother"--who looked suspiciously like a hobbit--smoked a filthy cigarette while pushing her baby to the busstop in his stroller. The poor thing was locked into a torture device forced to breathe cancer air. Then she took the baby out and held him on her lap, while she smoked. Then her husband walked over, and he shook like a junkie and was missing a tooth. They also had a daughter who ran on the bus ahead of them. Then they both got on, and then he left, at which point he waved at them through the window. Then they left him. I could see the daddy issues beginning to form in the little girl's mind. That was weird enough. Then the woman starts talking on her cellphone--loudly. People began to stare. She snarls at them-revealing that she has a missing tooth to match her husband/baby daddy/pimp/drug dealer. Then she gets off the phone and starts screaming at her kids--louder still. More people stare. Since the screaming isn't working, she starts spanking her kids. Everyone looks away. That's right--no one wants to be an accessory after the fact to child abuse. I wonder, what do you call white trash in Spain? Hemingway never covered that one.
Liane Likely to Lose Limb
During that first run-in with the beach I acquired some new information about Malaga. To tell you this story I’m going to begin with another story: Last year my parents, my brother Erik and I went to Pismo Beach. We stashed our belongings in our room and headed out on a fact-finding expedition. And by fact-finding expedition, I mean we went to check out the beach. After a lovely stroll down the seaside, I discovered a black muck on my foot. I went back to the room and spend a good hour scraping and peeling and scrubbing a persistent goo from my poor foot which was, in some places, now skinless. From what I gathered, this mess was tar. A little later, my father quick to do a little research found out that Pismo Beach was named by the Indians of the area. Pismo was their word for “tar”. I learned that the hard way. Somehow, I always am the one lucky enough to step right into history--literally.
I don’t know what Malaga means, but once again I stepped in something. After Douglas convinced me to swim in the rocky ocean (though there was a less rocky alternative nearby), I emerged with feet whose bottoms were stained the color of iodine (to which scrubbing has had no effect), scrapes all over my legs, and a strangely swollen right big toe. Initially I thought it was a splinter since I could see a little dot/puncture wound. But as the pain increased and no foreign body surfaced, another theory came to light. Perhaps, somewhere in the rocky, algae-filled water…something bit/stung me. I don’t know what it is, but I started freaking out when this morning, I started to lose feeling in my big toe and realized I couldn’t actually walk.
I knew I needed to act quickly, so act quickly I did.
1. Operation Uba: My father, Ralf, is the namesake to this attempt at curing my ailment. It’s also called “Operation Walk-It-Off”. As kids, whenever we hurt ourselves, my parents were fans of the “Get Over It And Walk It Off” method of dealing with it. While insensitive, usually, this actually works. So I threw on my flip-flops and grabbed my camera, intending to kill two birds with one stone and providing you lovely folks with some pictures. I got out the door and only halfway to the pool before I realized that “Operation Uba” had failed. I was limping and the pain was getting worse. I had visions of amputation. Worse, self-inflicted amputation just to stop the pain.
2. Operation Ice, Ice Baby: My next instinct was that the pain was caused by the swelling. So I grabbed an ice-cube, wrapped it in a paper towel, and started Operation Ice, Ice Baby. The swelling continued. The redness was spreading. The pain was spreading too. Fail.
3. Operation Self-Medicate: I take three ibuprofen. Toe is throbbing. Can still not walk. Urge to amputate increases. Assuring myself that I can call it “Operation Operation”. Fear of self increases.
4. Operation Elevator: Douglas suggests elevating the foot. No signs of improvement. Patience wearing thin. Pain making me delirious. I think the knife is smiling at me.
Dismal results have me rethinking my strategy. Up to that point I had been formulating my plans on the assumption that the spreading was bad. Well, the spreading of the pain WAS bad, but what if it was poison not just simple swelling.
Let me explain. I am terrified of being bit by something in the water. I love the ocean. It’s one of my favorite (nonhuman) things. Other than sushi-which comes from the ocean, and doubles my love for it! (I also love the iphone and the internet--these do not mix well with water)I wanted to believe it was a splinter. Because if I had, in fact, been bit/stung by something, one of my deepest, darkest fears had been realized. I am not sure how my psyche would recover. What if I would never swim in the ocean again?
Immediacy of problem increases.
If the new working hypothesis was that it was poison, then I wanted to dissipate the poison through my bloodstream. I needed to spread it faster, not slower. It would explain why the ice made things worse. So I implemented:
5. Operation Hot Tub Time Machine: Great movie, by the way, I was pleasantly surprised. In my final attempt at preserving my love of the ocean--and my toe-- I would limp to the leisure center, sit in the Jacuzzi and put my toe in front of one of the jets. Perhaps, if I was lucky, the poison would disperse and travel away from its centralized location on my toe
(insert HOUSE-like graphics where the poison breaks into little balls and moves through the bloodstream--though hopefully not causing some kind of massive internal damage which may or may not include full-body paralysis. If I do go into full-body paralysis, people might mistake me for dead. Then I would be buried alive. And that would make pretty much all my major fears realized.)
When a baby is born, and the nurse puts it into the arms of its (because it could be a he or a she, or some kind of tranny thing or a he “trapped in the body of a she” or a she “trapped in the body of a he”..etc..) parents the first thing they (also, these days it could be a he/she couple, a he/he couple or a she/she couple or other/other couple) do is count the ten fingers and ten toes (then whether its a hermaphrodite or not). (Way too many parenthesis, right?)
So, you sit there wondering, will I come back from Europe with one less digit? Will my parents cry when they see the little stub where my perfectly pedicured big toe once was? Will my brothers laugh when I hobble around because my balance no longer serves me since my equilibrium is destroyed from lack of big toe?
As I sat in the hot tub, I thought about all these macabre possibilities…then I thought about Hot Tub Time Machine, because really--HILARIOUS movie….and then, before I knew it, and before the fat guy in the speedo could re-start the jets…the pain began to subside.
I plan to do a follow-up operation this evening, possibly called Operation Hot Tranny Mess (name still in the works). The current status of the mission is looking brighter. The redness is nearly unnoticeable, the swelling has gone down and I can walk without people checking to see if I have a peg instead of a leg.
Thank you for your concerns, prayers, well-wishes, candle-lit vigils and donations to Make a Wish. The cheery prognosis could not have been possible without you.
Sea of Skin
While Elise spent some extra time closely examining her pillowcase, Douglas and I decided to get some early morning pool time.
I’ve been called “white” before. I’ve been called “white” quite often. Never in my life have I seen people as white as the English people in Malaga. Some of these people are so white they are practically blue, as though their skin is nearly translucent and you can see their blood running through their veins.
Conversely, there appears to be a tanorexic convention at this resort. The poolside here knows only extremes: people who never spend a day in the sun & people who spend everyday (probably naked) in the sun.
The pool was lovely, but not nearly as lovely as the beach. The water was as pristine as I’d remembered from the train ride up. The sand? Little rocks and much too hot. The water? Full of sharp rocks. (Which my knees and feet tell the tale of with more eloquence than I ever could) Free hanging boobies? Too many. However, sitting on the waterline and letting the waves crash at my knees was probably one of the most relaxing things I’ve experienced in a while--until my calves started to turn red.
Don’t worry, it was only a warning shade. I have managed to last my first day beachside without emerging as a certifiable lobster. Though, at the present, there are a couple hours of sunlight left, meaning a distinct possibility that I may have spoken too soon.
Now Douglas is watching Stuart Little on TV and I remember exactly where I was when I read that book. I read it right before Trumpet of the Swan while in my grandparent’s old place in Palm Springs. I wasn’t joking about that whole “soundtrack of my life” thing from the first post. I had no idea that Hugh Laurie (aka Dr. House from HOUSE) played Stuart’s “dad”. Talk about range!
(Later that day....)
We met Elise after her “Intermediate Spainsh” class provided free of charge from the resort. We decided to head on down to the pool (again). This time we enjoyed the quiet reprise of the “adult pool”. This meant more free hanging boobies (none of which were mine). Then came happy hour.
From 6:30-7:30 the resort’s main bar offers 2X1 specials on local beers, local wines, and hard-A with mixers. I enjoyed two large, cold glasses of Amstel light which being an infrequent indulgence coupled with my empty stomach made for quite a happy couple of hours.
Douglas, fueled on a couple of Rum & Cokes, decided to treat himself to a Turkish bath. Elise and I joined him awhile later. Not completely sure what a Turkish bath is? I wasn’t. It’s something like a sauna but with tile instead of wooden planks. Is it enjoyable? Not in the least. It’s like being slowly suffocated and realizing that you can’t possibly have enough air no matter how many times you inhale. Not quite the feeling I want after two large beers. So after a few agonizing minutes, I jumped into the equally oppressive Jacuzzi.
I don’t get it. The coast of Spain has a wonderful tropical climate, if you want to sweat…step outside.
The lights went out--a sign that the indoor leisure facilities had closed for the night--and so it came time for night swimming in the ocean. Unlike my German predecessors, I opted for keeping my clothing on. (I'm borderline NeverNude--an absolutely legitimate fictional condition popularized on the most amazing and amazingly underrated show of all time: Arrested Development. Check out the link!)
The ocean water is the perfect temperature. Not too hot, not too cold. Never that moment that flashes through your mind: “Are you sure you want to do this? It doesn’t feel very comfortable.” For men I assume it’s the moment when their balls jump into their stomach--or whatever. Instead its inviting, almost like: “This is what home feels like, crawling right back inside the womb.” In the dark of night, there is a sense that the universe has swallowed you whole and you are suspended in space with no grasp of time or purpose. Then you get sand in your mouth and reality steps back in--don’t you hate it when that happens?
After I’d managed to spit out as much sand as possible, the three of us decided on Indian food for dinner. Yum yum yum. Then, exhausted, we summoned our strength for the 100 foot walk back to our room.
Enter: Malaga (Accent on the First A)
I wish I could write more about the airport, and the flight over to Malaga. I had plenty of witty things to say at the time.
Espero que pueda escribir mas sobre la airport y la vuela a Malaga. Yo tenia muchas cosas a decir a la tiempo.
But then I got off the plane, and everything that I had to say flew right out the window. Malaga may be the most beautiful place I have ever been in my life.
Pero yo exito el vuelo y todos de las palabras quieria decir fue no mas. Es posible que Malaga sea el lugar mas bonita que otros lugares yo fue visitar en mi vida.
As we rode south on the train, the sunset created hues I’ve never seen before in the natural world outside of one window, while the clear waters of the ocean glistened out the other. I knew the public transportation in Los Angeles was terrible, but the Spanish public train made anything in LA seem like a garbage pail on wheels. If the train ride was this exhilarating I could only imagine what the rest of the week had in store for me.
Nosotros fuemos sur en el tren. Okay, I give up. My Spanish is terrrrible. I know some of that was desperately wrong. I clung to the subjunctive far too much. But hey, at least when people speak to me in Spanish I recognize the words, even if I don’t know what they mean. In Germany, I didn’t even know where one word ended and the next began.
The train ride came to the end of the line and desperate to settle in (as it was now nearly 22.00 aka 10pm) we jumped into a taxi and rode to Dona Lola Resort in Marbella. We dragged our things over to Carolina building (all the buildings are named after Hispanic women--there is even a Martha building for Grandma Venti), plopped our belongings into our room and headed out to find some grub.
(This picture shows the Carolina Building of the Dona Lola Resort--I took it the next day..aka in the future)
After watching the latest episode of Jersey Shore, which Douglas had so thoughtfully downloaded in Berlin before we left consistent internet, we all went into our respective rooms and prepared for the week to come (or 6 days).
*To preserve authenticity--I did not double check any of that "Spanish translation" and I'm too lazy to add the accents. Please be kind in your criticisms. Also remember that I never do grammar/typo checks because it takes too long, and once again...too lazy. Much love.*
Awaiting Pictures
The Dresden post will be up soon. I am just awaiting pictures. Since I foolishly forgot to charge my camera (which claimed to be fully charged) before I left, and it died within 20 min of arriving in Dresden, I had to use my iPhone. Horrible quality.
The good news is that I purchased a CD of "virtual postcards" with pictures.
The bad news is that my computer doesn't have a CD-drive.
Fear not. I will figure this situation out soon. Promise!
If you have any questions while you wait...email me at weissenlf@gmail.com
A Note of Thanks
Before discussing my trip to Dresden, which I believe will take quite a few posts, I want to thank my cousins Jan and Katja for their hospitality during our visit.
I think we all had our concerns, but I certainly found myself pleasantly surprised by the visit and am hopeful that they will come to California so I can return the favor.
Dresden- Part I
Prior to my arrival in Berlin, ten years had passed since the last time I stepped foot on the continent of Europe. My memories are as follows:
- Amazing pizza in Austria- My first "Margherita Pizza": Tomato, Cheese, Basil
- Sipping a coke from a glass bottle while staring over the river at the back of the house from Sound of Music, also in Austria
- Erik walking into a red telephone booth, somewhere in Germany or Austria
- Taking a tour of a Salt mine in Salzberg, Austria--very cool wooden slides
- Meeting my family in Germany
- Going to eat with my family in Germany. Erik ate obscene amounts of spaetzle.
- Genuine confusion from said German family at realization that my brothers and I could not climb trees. (Equal confusion from me as to why you would want to)
- My cousin Jan stealing beer and trying to convince my brother, Ralf (who was probably 8 or 9 at the time) to drink it. I was not amused.
- Being deathly afraid that there were snakes in a field. Once again, not amused.
- Having my first soft-boiled egg. Very amused.
The last time I was in Germany, I was not in Berlin.
The streets of Berlin do not smell like Deli meat. Usually, they smell like urine.
To be honest, I don't particularly like Berlin. Throughout my world travels (Oh, to sound pretentious), I don't think there has been a city that I have liked less. More on this to come.
Don't get me wrong- I have enjoyed my time here and the experience has been fascinating. The museums have been interesting. But the city itself- not so much my style.
So when the decision was made to go south, to the city of Dresden, and to visit some of my family--I was ecstatic. Dresden, I felt, was a place that I would like.
We rented a car* from Enterprise and Elise skillfully navigated the autobahn south to the German state of Saxony. Our destination? The McDonald's in Elbe Park.
*Here, I use the word car in a very broad sense.
Our chariot to Saxony was actually a Chevrolet Matiz--which, as you can see from the picture to the right, is practically a toy car. I half expected to see a giant wind-up pin in the back.
The car had no pick-up, a nail-biting situation when driving on the autobahn.
This piece-of-shit almost had me wishing I had a Trabi.
I wouldn't use the word dread to describe my feelings during the drive. It was more of a nervous anxiety. There was geniune excitement somewhere deep, deep beneath the feeling of nausea (completely unrelated to Elise's driving).
It had been a decade since I saw Katja and Jan. I didn't remember very much about them, other than they were nice. I had exchanged emails with Katja and her concerns about her English had me concerned as well. What if's filled my uneasy mind. What if I didn't recognize them? What if they didn't recognize me? What if we couldn't communicate? What if they didn't like me? What if we had nothing in common?
I wouldn't say I'm a worried person. Some might, but I wouldn't. I consider myself cautious, thoughful (as in, full of thoughts), and sometimes this puts more pressure on me than comfortable. For example, I never see myself as simply a representative of myself-particularly when abroad or in situations with people unknown to me. I think of myself as an ambassador. I represent myself, my family, my school/employer, my religion, my political affiliations, my city, my state and my country. So if I make an ass out of myself, I don't think it only affects me. I could potentially be making an ass out of all the institutions that I belong to. Yes, it is a lot of pressure to put on yourself. But, it keeps you on your toes and (typically) on the straight and very-very-narrow. It's not uptight, it's determination and a different worldview. Anyways...
After roughly two hours on the road, we pulled into the McDonald's. I didn't see them. Or worse, I didn't know what they looked like now and could be looking right at them and not even realize! I was too nervous to eat. I was much more inclined to use the water closet. (I have now taken the term water closet and made it my own. Expect me to come back and say: "Would you pause the movie so I can use the water closet?" or "I'll be ready in 5 minutes, just a quick trip to the water closet." I love euphemisms!)
On my way out of the water closet, I noticed a girl and guy standing together. She had thin black hair pulled tightly back into a ponytail. She looked angry. I hoped that wasn't them. Then the guy next to her grabbed her hand, and I let out a sigh of relief. I turned the corner and then I smiled.
Once I saw them, I knew at once who they were. I wouldn't say there is a family resemblance. It's more likely that somewhere in the back of my mind I knew what they looked like. But there was a very powerful feeling of comfort that instantly put me at ease. All those silly doubts, washed away. That's not to say it wasn't awkward for a little while. But family is family. Despite the years, and the distance, and the infrequent communication--Jan and Katja felt like family. After a couple weeks away from home, that was certainly a welcome feeling.
Katja had a busy day planned. We'd leave our car, and Jan would be our chauffeur for the day. First, a palace on the "outskirts" of town. That's one we had to look up in the German/English dictionary she brought with her. Then, a tour of the city on a double-decker bus. Finally, some traditional German food from the Middle Ages.
I was as happy as a kid at Christmas.
Another Note from a Nomad
To my avid, rabid readers:
You have been spoiled. You were used to getting multiple posts a day, and now its been a couple days. I will continue to do my best to post at regular intervals. I intend to do some catch-up today. There are a lot of pictures and cataloging and indexing takes time. Genius also takes time.
Don't give up on me so easily.
And I apologize that my posts are a little more bland than usual. I seemed to have "lost my voice" along with my health.
Topography of Terror
The terrain known today as the "Topography of Terror" housed the most important institutions of the Nazi terror: the national central headquarters of the Secret State Police (Gestapo), the Reich SS Leadership, the Security Service (SD) of the SS, and the Reich Security Main Office (RSHA).
Douglas and I spent some time discussing the name Topography of Terror. Certainly an odd choice. While I noted my confusion at what a map of elevation had to do with government office buildings, Douglas surprised me with his insight.
"Well, it's where they mapped out their plans."
Simple, probable. I have yet to find any other meanings that make more sense.
The buildings were destroyed in air raids during the Second World War, what remains has become a museum dedicated to outlining the evolution of the evil empire. Outside of the building housing the exhibit, a network of pathways through a stony courtyard lead the viewer to podiums relaying information about the buildings that once stood in their place.
Shown here is the wooded area behind the Topography of Terror. I found myself wondering how many drunken Nazis had wandered into these woods to relieve themselves during festivities held in one of the banquet halls housed in the building that once stood nearby. Had the Fuhrer himself ever found himself wandering through the woods with an urge he could not wait to satisfy? Its a question I will never know the answer to...and yet, having asked the question, I felt undeniably German. (A connection to my people, with a preoccupation with bowel movements and such)
Inside the museum, this picture depicted a vacation during Nazi-ruled Germany. At least fascism is better than communism in one respect--it keeps people in their bathing suits.
And here I am with a nearby Berlin bear!
Berlin Wall Memorial
The Berlin Wall- international symbol of the division of Germany after WWII and of the Cold War between the East and West.
The construction of the Berlin Wall began on August 13, 1961. The government of the German Democratic Republic built this more than 150-km-long barrier to hermetically seal off East Berlin and the rest of the territory of the GDR (or DDR in German). More than 2.7 million people had fled the GDR between October 1949 and August 1961, the majority of them across the border separating Berlin's Eastern and Western sectors. The Wall was designed to halt this stream of refugees and make it impossible to cross the border unchecked.
The installation consisted of several sections: a "front wall" and a "hinterland wall", an inner track with a patrol path, watchtowers, and barrier fortifications. By 1989, at least 136 people had lost their lives at the Wall, 98 of them while trying to flee. Most of them were shot down by border guards.
Reforms in the Soviet Union and the rapidly growing protest movement in the population, but also the flight of thousands of citizens via Eastern European countries, led to the peaceful "fall" of the Wall on November 9, 1989. Soon afterwards, the first sections of the barrier were torn down. Even before the reunification of Germany on October 3, 1990, the Wall had largely disappeared from the Berlin cityscape.
At the request of the Topography of Terror (more to come), the remaining 200 meters of the Wall at Niederkirchnerstrasse, which marked the border between the districts of Mitte (East berlin) and Kreuzberg (West Berlin), have been preserved with all the traces of destruction that occurred during the transitional period. This fragment of the Wall, designated a historic monument in 1990, now forms part of the Topography of Terror Documentation Center. As one of the few surviving sections of the Wall in the city, it is also one of the central sites in the "Overall Concept for the Berlin Wall" developed by the Berlin Senate.
"Quality. Chocolate. Squared."
The history of Ritter Sport begins where most romance films end: marriage. When confectioner Alfred Ritter married sweet shop owner Clara Gottle in 1912- chocolate became a family affair.
Since then, the Ritter family chocolate recipe has continued to propel the company into one of the largest chocolate manufacturers in the world.
The Ritter Sport store in Berlin houses a cafe, a "Make-your-own-chocolate-bar" Bar, an apparel store, an exhibit on how chocolate is made and, of course, plenty of chocolate. 
The name Ritter Sport was introduce along with the invention of the chocolate square in 1932. Clara Ritter's argument: "We'll make a chocolate that fits into the pocket of every sports jacket, doesn’t break, and still weighs the same as a normal long bar of chocolate.” 
So the Sport in Ritter Sport refers to the ability to fit perfectly into the pocket of men's sport jackets.
Chocolate production has continued since 1912, except for a brief halt between 1940 and 1950 due to World War II. The company reopened and made non-chocolate sweets from 1946 to 1950.
Ritter Sport is an industry leader in innovation of marketing, environmentalism and diversification for consumer needs. 
Ritter Sport has led the way for introduction of eco-conscious packaging and production. Furthermore, in 2008, they introduced an "Organic Line" of chocolate.
For those of you watching your waistline, in 1999, Ritter Sport introduced a "Diet" line of chocolate.
If you want to watch it expand, try one of these MEGA sized bars.
Doug attempts to determine whether or not the Ritter Sport bear was white chocolate.
The test, shown here, produced negative results.
Doug enjoys part of the playzone located within the chocolate production exhibit.
Click here to find a Ritter Sport retailer near you.
DDR Museum - Sit Back, Relax, This Isn't Going to Hurt Too Much.
The Dance Dance Revolution Museum, wait, no, that's not right.
The DDR Museum is an interactive exhibit detailing the "everyday" life of citizens of East Germany- known in German as the Deutsche Demokratische Republik or DDR.
Youth
Schools in the DDR were centrally regulated with a standardized curriculum focusing on performance and selection.
Ten years of "polytechnic secondary school" were followed by a compulsory apprenticeship. Very few attended "extended secondary school" to qualify for university.
Marxism-Leninism was a mandatory subject for mathematicians and sportsmen alike.
Daycare centers in the DDR implemented a system of collective potty breaks. Children sat at potty benches, a long wooden bench with holes for the children's bottoms, and everyone remained seated until the last person was done (numbers 1 & 2). This not only aimed at training them to use a toilet, but was the first step in "social education".
I am so bothered by the idea of this, that I can't even think of anything witty to say.
Free German Youth
Most young people in the DDR became a member of the Free German Youth (FGY or FDJ in German) at the age of 14.
In 1946 the FGY was created as a nonparty youth organization. However, its goals were quite clear. The organization was used as a tool to slowly introduce young people to Marxism and Leninism with educational seminars and also used youth clubs, group trips and youth festivals to reinforce the teachings.
Membership was optional. No one was forced to become part of the organization. However when it came time to apply to secondary schools and universities, non-members suffered heavy discrimination. The impact of the situation was clear. In 1985, roughly 80% of all young people between 14 and 25 were members of the FGY.
University
In the DDR, there was no such thing as anonymous mass universities. *Like my beloved UCLA*
A seminar group consisted of no more than 25 students, which in most cases became a real close-knit group over the years.
Going to university did not guarantee a well-paid job. In fact, engineers in the DDR often made less than construction workers. Nonetheless, many young people desired the opportunity to study. Unfortunately, only ten percent of the people were allowed to go to university.
Participating in the "coming of age ceremony", an FGY membership, and an extended service in the Army increased the chances of getting a spot at a university. Conscientious objectors to military service, at best, could study theology.
Every university in the DDR had the same curriculum. Nope, no underwater basketweaving here.
In addition, every student had to serve four weeks in a military camp and was forced to become a reserve officer cadet. Female students had to participate in a seminar for civil defense. Sports courses were mandatory once a week.
And during summer break, all students had to work for six weeks--at a construction site.
Students could get into trouble for telling political jokes, owning certain books, or not participating in May 1st demonstrations. In fact, being seen with a book by George Orwell would get you taken off the university register.
A Taste of the West
The Intershop gave East Germans a taste of the West. For Western money, people could buy Western goods, like cigarettes and alcohol, and later on, groceries, toys, music, electronics and jewelry.
Intershops were initially intended for Western travelers and were located at airports, near transit routes and hotels, as well as at Berlin-Friedrichstrasse station (one I am very familiar with at this point).
The DDR bought Western goods and, like a Duty-Free shop, sold them tax-free and at lower prices. Why? They needed Western currency to buy important raw materials such as cotton and coffee on the international market.
Quickly, the Intershop became popular with East Germans as well. There, they found what was missing in the DDR: variety, glamor, and a taste of the big wide world.
A Standardized World
Media
Yes, the DDR had 39 newspapers, 2 TV Channels, and 4 radio stations. BUT, there was only 1 option. The DDR media were only allowed to broadcast censor-approved material. the chief editors met every Wednesday to be briefed by the DDR Central Committee on linguistic regulations and directives.
The popular shows were Rumpelkammer and Das Sandmannchen, not particularly intellectual as seen below.
Politically interested viewers had to resort to Western television, which the government could not do anything to prevent.
Fashion
The government decided what was fashionable-Period. Whether it was blouses, skirts, or pants- the most important designs for the DDR textile industry came from the Modeinstitut Berlin. As the main designer for the mass-produced collections for the DDR since 1952, the institute had a great influence on the clothing styles of the people. Men and women, kids and teens--everyone wore the institutes creations. When designers at the Modeinstitut Berlin presented their collections, they were often one step behind the Western trends. Clothes for working women had to be hard-wearing and fit for everyday use.
Many officials, particularly those responsible for purchases for the textile industry, had to give their blessing to the designers. Rarely having the necessary raw materials to work with, designers could not always live out their creativity. Time and again, designs had to be considerably simplified to save on material. This usually meant fewer ornamental seams, smaller collars and no unnecessary buttons.
With hardly any cotton available, the production of synthetic fibers like the polyester product "Prasent 20" boomed. It was easy care, durable, and wrinkle-free but the low breath-ability of the material caused heavy sweating. The DDR had to save material, so accessories were the only form of variety and people learned to tailor their own clothes.
Levi's jeans or other Western imports were in high demand but almost unavailable. To the right you see Levi jeans, next to the East German version.
Fashion magazines were the most read magazines in the DDR. The main reason was that they included sewing patterns and instructions. "Sibylle" was the most well known, containing high-quality fashion picture by famous photographers and small sideswipes. "Die Pramo" (practical fashion) and the knitting magazine "Modische Maschen" (fashionable stitches) had much higher circulations.
Since it is no longer fashionable to sit at the sewing machine, none of these magazines exist anymore.
Musicians in the DDR had an advantage: Their music was sure to be played in clubs and on the radio. City, Puhdys and Karat were famous bands, but people longed for Western music.
The City song "Am Fenster" (click link to listen to song) became the greatest hit in the history of GDR rock music. It was a mixture of cool melancholy and Balkan spirit. The single sold 120,000. The album (of the same title) was the first East German record to become a gold record in the west (Greece and FRG).
Karat was one of the greatest rock bands in the DDR. In 1975, they gave their debut concert. Their first record, which included the song "Konig der Welt" was released in 1978 and made them an overnight sensation. Karat sold seven million records.
The Peter Maffay version of their song "Uber Sieben Brucken"(click to hear the Karat version) even hit the FRG music charts.
Formed in 1969, the band Puhdys was the most famous and long-lived rock bands of the DDR. Their breakthrough came in 1973 at the 10th World Festival. The musicians were even allowed to release their records in the FRG, give concerts there, and even go on tour in the USA. By 1989, 15 million vinyl records and tapes had been sold. "Wenn ein Mensch lebt" was their greatest hit.Music that was played on the radio, in restaurants, at office parties or dancing events was subject to a quota rule in the DDR. 60% of all songs played had to be composed by either DDR musicians or their socialist neighbors. The remaining 40% were songs from other countries provided they were released by a DDR record company.
How was that enforced? The "Anstalt zur Wahrung der Auffuhrungs-und Vervielfaltigungsrechte" (AWA--and no I did not make any of that up) sent out inspectors to ensure that the order issued in 1958 was observed. If the quota was not met, musicians were banned from stage--or even from their profession!Discotheques (haha) often found a way to circumvent the quota rule: They only played short parts of the DDR songs and then put on more trendy music.
"ROCK FUR DEN FRIEDEN" or Rock for Peace was a popular music festival between 1982 and 1987 organized by the Palace of the Republic, the Music Committee and the FYG. DDR rock bands, as well as bands from socialist and Western countries played at the festival. The Youth and even the DDR leading officials loved the festival. After only three years, however, apparently a large number of bands had grown tired of writing one song for peace after another.
Generally, Western music was the thorn in the SED's side. In order to "contain" the success of Rock 'n' Roll, they needed to devise their own dances. The most famous is the Lipsi (click to watch a video of the Lipsi) from 1959. It was faster than any previous dances, but still a classic ballroom dance. In general, the young people ignored it.
"We don't need the Lipsi or Ado Koll. We need Elvis with his Rock 'n' Roll."
Sports
Encouraged by top-class athletes like Schur, Seyfert, Sparwasser, Weissflog and Witt, young people committed themselves to sports. The secret to the DDR's success in sports was its system of sport schools and selection. international success meant so much to them, they resorted to doping their athletes (also see: China).One phenomenal athlete from the DDR (probably not on drugs) the figure skater, Gabriele Seyfert is pictured here alongside her 1960 trophy. At the age of 12, she won the second national winter festival of the Pioneer organization Ernst Thalmann which marked the beginning of an extraordinary career. She was given the title "Sports Woman of the Year" and became a world-class athlete in her discipline.
The two German states only met once on the football pitch (aka Soccer Field): the 1974 World Cup in West Germany. They faced each other in the last game of the group stages at the Hamburger Volksparkstadion (in Hamburg). The FGR (West Germany) were expected to win. They played moderately well, but in the 77th minute Jurgen Sparwasser did the unbelievable and scored the winning goal, putting the DDR 1 up. The "Victory over Capitalism" improved the DDR's respect.
Although the DDR was the group winner, they were defeated in the intermediate round. In the end, the West German team won the World Cup.The "Footy" to the left was signed by all members of the 1974 DDR World Cup team.
Home Sweet Home
Comfort was a major requirement for all fully-furnished concrete-slab buildings, old buildings, and single-family homes. Flowery wallpaper on every wall, carpets, net curtains, and three-piece suites, all offered a cushion to the hard realities of daily life.
Furniture stores had little variety, so people resorted to DIY projects. Apartments were decorated with Granny's furniture, balconies with carriage wheels and horseshoes. Oil lamps lit up the shelves. The search for variety and style created a new kind of conformity.
Marital Bliss
Father, mother, and the children--even in the DDR, the family was a source of security. Marriage at the early age of 20 was common and supported through governmental benefits like apartments and interest-free marriage loans. Debts decreased with every child. Working mothers were given maternity leave and the option to return to their job. The guaranteed daycare (with evil potty breaks) for children enabled 90% of women to be employed.
Home from Work, Straight into the Kitchen
In the DDR, "women were equal to men". The government encouraged women to work in qualified positions and technical jobs, thus raising their numbers in these areas of work. Many women continued their education by attending correspondence degree courses and evening school. Child care (for children older than eleven weeks) and other social institutions made life easier for women.Despite options like maternity leave, legal protection or working mothers, and day care centers, the existing role allocations remained the same. The division of labor between men and women in the DDR did not change, either. Women were still primarily employed in the education profession and in the nurturing profession, while men mostly worked in technical professions.
Women took on the additional task of making money, which used to be a male domain, but at the same they continued to be mothers and housewives. Women in leading positions were the exception. The Politburo of the SED, the body of highest political power in the DDR, never had any women amongst their employees.
Despite their promises and efforts, the DDR was still a society in which men made the decisions.All in all, not that different from America during the same period.
Another illustration of the infamous toilet shelf.
The Dacha
If you've ever read Anton Chekov you are probably familiar with a dacha. If not, its the Russian term for a seasonal house.
For East Germans, the dacha was not just a summer house on a piece of land. It represented the people's longing for harmony in a completely nonpolitical way. The SED was not entirely happy about seeing people escape to this previous sanctuary. They preferred it, however, to seeing them escape to the West. Many a weekend were spent at the dacha. Colleagues helped each other find the right materials to add supplementary space to it. It was an idyllic place where, in the evenings, barbecue parties were held and the often mocked garden gnome was always standing guard.
Vacations
In contrast to the travel freedom of the West, East Germans had to organize their domestic vacation plans through trade-union coupons or government travel agencies. They were only permitted to visit neighboring East European states if they went abroad – restrictions that added to popular frustration with the regime.
Baltic beaches were popular vacation spots for many East Germans. Apparently, beach visits were often naked. In spite of the SED's efforts, skinny dipping was a regular occurrence. Nudism became a mass movement after academic protests from nudists: four in five East Germans had been skinny dipping at least once, and only one in ten rejected nudism in principle. (These are statistics provided from the museum) Along with the failure of the ban, the pleading of the Cultural Minister, Becher to "protect the eyes of the nation" also failed.
Luckily these older women did wear clothing, thus protecting my eyes. I am beginning to think they might have planned food shortages to prevent naked fat people from being nude at the beach.
The reasons for the popularity of nudism was less to do with sexual freedom and more of a resistance to the eternal conformity of the DDR, and nudity was a sign of "true classlessness". (This is museum term. Whehter it means no social classes or no social grace, I have yet to decide.) In the end, those wearing swimsuits became the odd ones out.
Then, the museum presents a little diorama of naked beach activities, in addition to photographs of more nude activities. I am officially a prude American.
Why are these people running on the beach? Why are they running on the beach while holding hands? Why are they naked while running on the beach holding hands? Not cool
Here a mother and child (I assume) smile at eachother--while naked.
Naked parenting--aka pedophilia.
Of course, that age old pastime of nude volleyball with your best male friends. Who doesn't like to play with their friend's balls? I mean, play ball with their friends....
They even realistically included a guy with a farmer's tan. Thanks for the accuracy, Germany!
There are other disturbing images, I assure you, I have them on my computer. I just don't feel the need to subject you to such sites. They involve a naked couple, a naked woman with her hand between her legs as she reads, and a naked woman swimming "froggy style" in the shallow end of the water. Of all the things to replicate in a museum....
And on that note, I bring you to the most exciting part of the museum: The part where Doug ends up under a car.
Transportation
Getting from A to B was not easy in the DDR. The streets were full of potholes, the trains were old fashioned: traveling was time consuming and arduous. Buses and trains were rarely on time, yet tickets were sometimes free. Going by train was fairly inexpensive but most people saved up for their own car, waiting up to 16 years for it to arrive.
Only every other family owned a car in 1985 and the two-stroke engine was dated. The convoys of Trabis moving towards the West became a symbol for the fall of the Wall.
The what, you say? The Trabi!
People had never experienced so much love for a car, as they did for the Trabi. In a country where freedom was restricted, it at least offered some mobility. People who wanted to buy a Trabi, however, had to wait a long time to actually get it.
In 1954, the Politburo commissioned a project for a compact car that could compete with the successful Western Beetle. It had to be robust, yet small and inexpensive.
The first result of this project, the Trabant P50, went into production in 1958. It was produced at the VEB Sachsenring Auto-Mobilweke Zwickau which originated from the merger of the two companies Horch and Audi.
Technologically, the P50 was not perfect. Its brakes were weak and required a special permit. Still, the car was met with great approval. The DDR had its own compact car!
Instead of a fuel gauge, the Trabi had a less than useful electronic device known as Mausekino, a mechanism that was prone to fail, thus sometimes bringing the whole car to a standstill.
Experienced drivers used the mileage indicator to estimate how much fuel remained. When the fuel level got too low, the car started to jolt, so the driver had to switch to reserve and use the remaining two liters to get to the next service station.
Trabi drivers knew the insides of their car almost as well as the mechanics did, and could do most of the repairs themselves. Many an engine was taken apart on the kitchen table. Trabi drivers did not have to rely on others.
Hunting down spare parts, however, was quite an endeavor. The mechanic's first question to a customer usually was: "Can you provide the parts?"
You had to make sure you had the spares ready in advance.
It took such a long time to actually get a Trabi that nobody stood a chance of getting another one in the near future. For this reason, Trabi drivers were very particular about their cars and kept them operational as long as possible.
The Trabi was a companion--with it a trunkload of memories and emotions.
The Trabi also went by the name of "Plastic Racer" which was meant either affectionately or mockingly. The nickname derived from the rather unusual material the Trabant's body was made of. In order to save on steel, the design engineers at Zwickau used a new material called Duroplast, which was also lighter and more robust.
Duroplast is an exceptional synthetic material. To fabricate the individual car body panels, engineers combined cotton fleece with granulated phenol resin. The composite was then cut to size and heated under pressure and steam. The heat liquefied the resin, which could then seem into the fleece. While cooling, the material solidified to a rigid component, and then was attached to the steel frame of the car.
BAM! The plastic racer was ready to roll!
And that, I suppose, was everyday life in East Germany. All of which was meticulously spied on by the Stasi.....